


Ah, Poor Sinner, Think of Calvary

by plutonianshores



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crucifixion, Dream Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/pseuds/plutonianshores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Valjean has a disturbing and erotic dream.</p><p>As the original prompter put it, "The important thing is Valjean suffering attractively on a cross".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ah, Poor Sinner, Think of Calvary

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt at the kink meme, originally posted there.
> 
> Title from [a hymn](http://library.timelesstruths.org/music/Behold_the_Dying_Savior/).

The first thing Valjean was aware of was Javert’s lips on his, and the second, the hands pinning his wrists to the bed. It was unusual, in that this was rougher than Javert usually dared be. No matter how many times Valjean told him he didn’t mind, that he’d enjoy it, Javert still treated him with reverence when they were together, as if Valjean were an icon to be worshipped rather than a man begging to be fucked.

Tonight, though, Javert held him down hard enough that it would certainly leave bruises, and there was a bite to his kisses. Valjean felt exposed beneath him, and he tried to turn his face away, hitting an edge of wood that was in the wrong place to be the bedframe. His hands had been stretched to the side somehow, and when he tried to sit up, to gain some sense of where he was, a tearing pain in his wrist drove him back to the ground. Through the agony, he began to piece together his surroundings—the sky was gray above him, the strange wooden frame beneath him was some sort of cross, and Javert stood to his side, one hand holding a hammer and the other steadying the nail that pierced his arm.

This is a dream, Valjean realized with a sudden clarity, and once the thought had hit, he wondered why it had taken him this long to realize. But he still couldn’t wake up. (He didn’t know if he wanted to wake up.) “Javert, what are you doing?”

“You are Jean Valjean, the man who called himself Monsieur Madeleine, saint among men?”

“You say so. I’ve made no claims to sainthood.”

“And yet you hid your past, set out to erase it with good works.” With that, Javert resumed his pounding of the nail, and it took Valjean everything he had to talk through the pain. (It seemed he had to talk, that he was compelled to speak by forces beyond his control. There was something here beyond the logic of dreams, something that felt fated.)

“I never tried to save myself. I gave myself over to you, Javert, again and again.”

“And here we are. You wished to be the savior of that whore Fantine, of her daughter…well, this is what becomes of saviors. They’re martyred.”

Valjean knew Javert would never say things like this, in the waking world—or at least, he wanted to think that. But these words sounded less out-of-place than he’d like, easier than they should be to reconcile with the man who loved him, and whom he loved.

“Would you be my Pilate, then?”

“Everyone has their roles to play.”

Javert began to drive the second nail in, and he could no longer speak. There was a brief respite after the pounding stopped, and then the cross was raised, and if Valjean had thought the previous pain was bad, it was a pinprick compared to this agony. The weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders, and he could barely draw enough air to breathe.

“Please, please, don’t do this. Please, Javert.” He knew that pleading would get him nowhere, that this distorted mirror’s image of the man he loved would yield to nothing. Still, he had to. This was the script he had to follow. “Have mercy.”

“Why?”

Because the things he’d done, they weren’t worth this. Because he’d never called himself a saint, only a man. Because… “I love you.”

Javert laughed, and it hurt more than any nail could have. “And you think that means anything to me? You think I could ever love someone like you?”

“Please,” he said. Javert turned away.

It wasn’t a pain he should have been able to get used to. And perhaps he didn’t get used to it, but the haze of agony faded enough after a while that he could focus on his surroundings. Javert was watching him, from the side, something like a smile on his face. Valjean looked away from him—he didn’t matter. His mind had been set. The gathered crowds were more difficult to deal with, filled with faces he knew, faces that had once looked upon him with kindness twisted to hate and rage.

He’d always known why he had to hide who he was. That didn’t make it any easier to face their scorn, even scorn he knew was conjured up by his dreaming self (because he knew that this couldn’t be far from the truth of matters, were his secret to be discovered). It didn’t make it any easier to see them reveling in his death, dividing up his belongings (here a flash of silver, there the checkered pattern of a doll’s skirt). Here were the people he’d give his life for, betraying him without a thought. Here was the man he loved, gazing at him with bloodlust in his eyes. Here was his life spread out before him, a series of mistakes and punishments far outweighing the crimes. What was left for him to do, but wait to die?

When Valjean had resigned himself to this death (anything that would bring an end to the pain seemed a relief), he felt the caress of a hand on his bare hip.

The touch shouldn’t have stung so, but it seemed to him every bit as intense as the nails pinned through him. Javert grasped him again, and laughed.

“Even here, even now, you still crave me.”

And without so much as a glance, Valjean knew it was true—his cock was hard against his skin, visible to everyone gathered.

“You’d like me to take care of that, wouldn’t you? I could give you my hand.”

“I don’t want this, please!”

Javert stepped closer, resting a painfully heavy grip on Valjean. “I know you do. I can see as much. You’re a filthy whore who wants nothing but to be debauched and degraded, and if you think you’ll find salvation on this cross you are sorely mistaken. Even here, even now, you draw your perversions into the Scripture!”

“Please.” He was running out of words with which to beg. Breath grew tight in his chest, and still Javert mocked him. Valjean found himself thrashing, ignoring the searing pain, desperately trying to break free—

He woke up in a cold sweat, shamefully hard. He’d thrown the quilt off sometime during the night, and Javert had curled closer to him. And, Lord help him, it seemed Valjean’s restless sleep had woken him up.

“Is everything all right?”

“I was only dreaming.”

Javert pressed a kiss to his lips, and Valjean found himself returning it with far more fervor than it had been given. Javert followed his lead, deepening the kiss and running a hand down Valjean’s chest. “It must have been an interesting dream.”

“Quite.” The feel of Javert over him brought back a rush of pleasure, and soon after a rush of shame. He pushed the shame away, and kissed him again.

Javert had learned long ago exactly how to touch him to create a reaction, and how to torment him by drawing things out. He’d deny it if asked, but he loved nothing more than to make Valjean beg for release. Tonight, Valjean couldn’t say he minded. Every brush of Javert’s fingers brought back memories of his dream, more arousing than such excruciating pain had any right to be. He found himself moaning embarrassingly loud, until Javert muffled the noises with a kiss. It wasn’t long before he’d spent himself in Javert’s hand.

“You’ll have to tell me about that dream,” Javert chuckled, and Valjean prayed that in the dark, the furious red his face must have been turning wasn’t visible.

“It’s late. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Valjean prayed that he wouldn’t, but knew that he likely would. Right then, falling asleep in Javert’s arms, the confession that would come in the morning didn’t seem so frightening.


End file.
